Site, Memory, Reflection
by EscapeToCity
Summary: Lex has a bullet-proof soul. *Slash*, Character Death


SITE, MEMORY, REFLECTION  
  
  
  
Author: EscapeToCity  
  
Notes: None of these characters belong to me, I am simply inspired by them. They are owned by AOL Time Warner/DC Comics/Millar-Gough.  
  
  
  
  
  
He's hurting.  
  
Places sometimes have meanings but often we leave the meaning behind, that is to say a place can mean something very powerful to us and then we spurn the place as fast as we have loved it. These are very transitory times for humanity. Even more perilous days for love. For life.  
  
"Come back inside."  
  
Site is important when considering how to lay a foundation for one's future. We should have been laughing our asses off here. Should have been rolling about in the crystalline caves, the nooks of greenery amidst white. The setting was beyond bliss, my father's old ski lodge at Angel Fire, the pine ravines and heights in the background, the frost like icing over the logs.Gestures, not words. I like words better. Gestures are acceptable. Sometime they are all right because you're horny and it's a gorgeous day and your fingers are cold and he warms them up for you. Sometimes it's all right to put future conversations and realizations on layaway, because you know they're coming but goddamn just to look and hold and touch and forget sure looks good in the interim. Nuances makes everything alright and his eyes make time stop and reality drift.  
  
Have you ever just watched a crackling fire? Just stared at the glow of life, the power? He loved to watch. I was always afraid a bit of the look in his eye, that certain shift in color. He just leered at the flames, challenged them. I would hold his hand, trace the smooth skin of those ridiculously big fingers and tell him it was alright. I was never quite sure if he heard me. The snow outside was a comfort of sorts. I kept thinking, if it burns in here, the ice out there will cool us back down. Cool the heart.  
  
There are other places.the days he and I spent at Cambria the Pacific was blue gold and he smelled like copper and fresh sweat and the cypresses were nearly blown down by a storm. The site swirled around us and it was fine because I knew, he knew, that he would keep us safe. I was always safe with him and that gave him tremendous control. And I loved that. He needed it. It would soothe him, I hoped. At Cambria, we kissed like fools, fished for promise, and talked to sea otters. Clark broke my heart better than any otter ever cracked an oyster. Still, the sunset broke my heart even more. Red like regret, red like my blood, his blood, his distractions.  
  
"It was his time, Clark. Don't hate him."  
  
Other destinations, other tracts, other addresses come to mind. The Metropolis restaurant where he loved to play the jukebox. The Smallville Laundromat where we would have fights with rank sweatpants and make love under boxes of Bounce. The light-drenched freeways leading in and out of any big city; I can't forget nor remember any of the particulars. Just skylines and a tongue and long, feverish dusks followed by moonrises and forgotten vows. I remember jumping off a cliff and him flying down to catch me. Sometimes he misses.  
  
We try to stay away from certain spaces. Windmills, long rows ready for harvest. Too much pain there, too much history. No words. Clark doesn't care much for history. History makes him think of plows and neglected chores and the smell of bacon in the early morning and a pat on the shoulder and that grizzled mug looking at his feats in admiration.  
  
"I'm so proud of you, Clark."  
  
I know he's falling apart because he'll never hear certain words delivered the same way again and bacon won't ever taste the same again. Thus I offer variety, an endless array of visions and flavors, or newness; indulged whims, frivolous escape and forced amnesia. Yet as I attempt to immerse him in nameless destinations and colors, he only moves farther and farther into himself. I try anything, anyplace. I suck him off on top of Mount Rushmore; I ride that damned Six Flags 'Titan' about fifteen times; I eat more pizza and potato chips than I ever cared to see and somehow keep from vomiting.  
  
"You haven't said a word in three months, Clark."  
  
Yet, I realize that site has nothing to do with his pain. I have been approaching it the wrong way. Maybe. His stillness, his focus (or lack thereof) scares me. I love him. But he doesn't talk and he's burning down trees outside the lodge at night and then bursting into tears and screaming. And I am scared. For him. Never for me. She calls my cell phone and I try to whisper to her that I am making some sort of.well.I don't know if this is progress.  
  
It's snowing heavily outside again and I can barely see down the canyon towards Taos and there are tiny twinkling lights coming from one of the ski lifts and the wind is biting and I hear a familiar buzzing and then he's there. Holding me so very close to him, the heat radiating off him in huge drops of sweat. Or are they tears? He's trembling. I hold him closer, stroking his hair. It hangs and I try to gently fix it. He stand upright and stares at me.  
  
"Is there something you need to say?"  
  
He shakes his head. But he takes my hands in his and smiles. I think it's a smile. I think it is, hidden there beneath the wet, heavy eyelashes. I know he's not ready to talk and it's alright because it's cold and the bed is nearby and nothing really matters anyway. Nothing really does. Life is a painful journey and all I can do is fill the potholes to ease the bumps for him.  
  
When he's out collecting more firewood, hopefully not setting the forest on fire, I try to sit and compose myself and although I don't want to think about everything that has happened I do because that's the way the heart works. It overrules the mind, the mind wanting to be logical, to follow the rules, to lead the procession forward. Procession. Regression. The procession from lilies to mums and it was hot, too hot and her eyes were closed and he began to moan. I swear there were vultures nearby. I could smell them. I saw my mother and my chest felt tight. I wanted to go get some netting or something to protect the treasure. Dumb thought. I don't want to cry. Everyone is and while life tells you it's alright to cry it never really is because crying admits a loss of perspective. I knew this wasn't fair, was too soon but I also knew nothing in life goes easy for good people. Her eyes. Her plea.  
  
"Get him out of here. Get him out of here!"  
  
Memory. His hands were in the ground grasping at handfuls of dark earth and someone was screaming and I saw flames and I burst into tears just for a moment because my spine hurt and my fingers felt broken and my heart was too. And then I looked over to her again and heard her words and I knew I had to be the strong one, I had to take control and do what she had asked. I can't remember the how or the what or the why of how I managed to dump all my work at the plant on someone else. All I remember is Gabe telling me everything would be fine and I also feel my father's hand, for the first time in my memory, Lionel's hand holding mine and saying he was proud of me.  
  
"I'm proud of you."  
  
My father, complimenting me honestly and truthfully for the first time ever. Telling me I was a good friend and a strong man. To help them. Such a tragedy. I ran from the office before his compliments became platitudes. I packed Clark's things. She was with him out in the muck, in the golden haze, pleading with him to move, to talk, to do anything. I can't shake the memory of his pain nor the way the storm clouds were pushing in from Nebraska, nor the vacancy I saw in his eyes and the feeling that I might not ever see him smile again.  
  
"You smiled for me, Clark. I love you so much."  
  
I love him too much and I know that puts me at a disadvantage. But I'm not in any game to win anymore, all I want to do is make him warm again. I wish he wouldn't linger out in the canyon so long. I know nothing can happen to him but he's testing himself these days and I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone, not now. I've survived the rapids of life and I am ready for the serene, quiet pools of security and compassion. With. Him.  
  
There are some days I sit around, reading or just stroking his hair and I feel old and fuzzy, like I am destined to live this way. Years ago that would have scared the hell out of me but I am thirty-five now and time has shown that destiny is a relative concept. Everything's relative. Ten years ago I was in Singapore, running from him. Running through my father's billions, dancing in liquor and shadows. Five years ago I returned to Smallville, to the arms of the best man I know and a much more modest corporate setting. Ten. Five. One. One year ago was Jonathan's birthday and I miss him. I hope he knew how much I loved his son.  
  
He's sleeping which is rare anyway but God, it is nice to watch his chest rise. His eyes flutter and I want to kiss him but I wouldn't dare bother what little rest he gets. I nibble on some leftover duck quesadilla and they are surprisingly good. Catalog. We have everything delivered here; these came from Neiman-Marcus. I don't want to force him into public settings. He's not well yet and I don't know how long it might be and I don't care because I won't force anything on him and I have nothing left to do in this life but love him. The sex is irrelevant but delicious; I never realized how powerful silence was. What a turn on the simple sound of sex was. No need for dramatic proclamations, just slow movements and bonds renewed. Just he & I and the snow and the sky and everything slow and genuine and I want to sing but there's no need.  
  
"She wanted me to tell you she's doing fine and can't wait to see you."  
  
He smiles, just for a moment. I've been trying to stay in touch with her, to make sure she's coping. She's a strong one, and ironically my father is helping her, keeping her busy, promoting her. She wants to sell the farm. I keep telling her to wait until spring, to wait until the life comes back to the soil, until Clark is home. Don't make any rash decisions. They might adversely affect Clark. I know she'd never do anything to hurt him, never. But when she sees the farm she sees the bloody north forty, hears the plaintive wail and is blasted by the heat of that summer day. For her there are ghosts in the corn. I understand.  
  
I try to keep up with the world, I watch the news. War and strife and war and pain and poverty and I usually turn the television off quickly because I don't want to expose him to this, he'll feel guilty. He feels too much responsibility. What I will teach him someday is that each one of us is only given one life, one force, with which to make our mark. I don't care that he's not physically human, his heart sure as hell is. I will use this time here, or at the ocean, or atop a tower, or underground, or eating and sleeping or climbing or crying or running my hands through his hair-I will use this time to let him know that he is worthy and loved and that his father loved him so much and that I miss him too and he was awesome and that life sometimes fucking hurts but that's why we were granted each other. I will tell him that I am here to be his rock, his strength, and although I can't see through steel or break diamonds, I can protect his heart.  
  
My body is breakable but my soul is bullet-proof. I will tell him that and let him cry all night and then he will talk, sing, laugh and it will be fine. It will be. Somehow I just know. Someday we will go home.  
  
Every morning I awake and go to the mirror. I open my eyes and gaze into the glass.  
  
  
  
Two people in love look back.  
  
  
  
END 


End file.
